Not A Dying Fall
by O'Donnell
Summary: Sherlock is back, but all is not well; what can Watson and Lestrade do to help? Set during The Empty Hearse, shortly after the events at The Landmark Restaurant. Rated M for language and extremis


Not A Dying Fall

After the Landmark Restaurant scene in The Empty Hearse, Sherlock and John had to fumble their way back to some sort of normal relationship. Series Three shows a complete story arc of a broken and traumatised Sherlock trying to find a new normal as he tries to return to his old but new life. This is part of that journey. (I wanted to have a try at writing something angsty, which is far from my normal default position. And this is what arrived…..)

 _o0o0o0o_

Not A Dying Fall

" Go home. There's nothing you can do here."

"No. You need someone with you."

"Don't be absurd."

This was probably the third or fourth time Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had had this conversation across the hospital bed - visitor to patient, patient to visitor - and neither man was willing to give way.

So for the time being they sat and occasionally glared at each other.

"You're just being bloody stubborn."

"I know."

"And don't grin at me in that supercilious manner, you smug git."

"Why not? You are looking much better than you did eight hours ago."

"You, on the other hand, look as if you have had a bad night."

"I have."

At this point Lestrade conceded victory to Holmes and had the grace to stop talking.

Sherlock Holmes shifted on the uncomfortable hospital chair and his expression softened.

"I shall wait with you until your sister arrives. Shouldn't be long now. She estimated about an hour when I rang her."

"OK. Thank you."

Lestrade would have shrugged, but it hurt too much. There was a stinging graze along his right cheek. He had cracked a collar bone and two ribs, suffered general contusions and, perhaps, concussion. He felt terrible and ached for England - but at least his hearing had come back after the explosion, as the emergency doctor had said it would. So it could have been a whole lot worse. And it was all down to Sherlock Holmes.

"Don't thank me for anything. This is all my fault."

"No, Sherlock."

"Yes, Lestrade." There was so much force in those two words they made Lestrade blink and focus.

The consulting detective looked up from the floor which had been fascinating him on and off for hours and finally looked properly into Lestrade's eyes so the older man was able to see into the younger's.

"Sherlock? No, Sherlock, don't. Look…."

But Lestrade never got to finish the sentence, because at that moment his older sister Carol bustled in, sweeping Lestrade into a hug, talking, crying with relief, demanding answers to questions. Asking how he was, how he felt, what had happened…

When Lestrade managed to come up for air and get a word in edgeways, Sherlock had gone. Lestrade cursed, looked round wildly, then demanded:

"Carol, lend me your phone. I need to talk to John Watson."

oOoOo

John Watson let himself into 221B Baker Street with a key he had not used for years, quietly shut the door behind him, and stood and listened. The flat - so familiar, and yet now so strange to him - was silent, and Watson was suddenly uneasy, even more now than he had been when he received the telephone call from Lestrade less than a hour ago.

"….But you're OK, Greg?"

"Well, no. But I will be. The hospital have kept me in for tests and observation, that's all. Not denying I don't feel a bit strange and definitely battered and bruised. Could have been a lot worse in the circumstances. So when they release me I'm staying at Carol's for a few days. I'll be fine." he paused then admitted: "It's Sherlock I'm worried about."

"You mean he's hurt too?" John Watson tried to not sound alarmed. Or guilty.

"No. I don't think so. Look, mate, I know you are pretty pissed off with him at the moment, but I've seen him more than you have since he came back. And there's no-one else I can ask, is there? There's something off. He's not the same."

Lestrade was still worrying over the prank case of the Jack The Ripper skeleton. Sherlock had brought Molly with him instead of John. He had been strange - well, even stranger than usual - and had been talking to himself as well as John…when John had not even been there. For John was "not really in the picture anymore" - whatever that meant.

And there was something in the back of Sherlock's eyes Lestrade could not identify, but still niggled away at him. Despite so many years and crises, this was a Sherlock he had never seen before. A broken, damaged Sherlock, instinct said.

John Watson had heard him out in silence Which wasn't John Watson's style either, Lestrade reflected. Something was off with both of them, and they needed their stupid, proud skulls cracking together. Why wasn't everything just as it used to be now Sherlock was back? It didn't make sense.

"Just check up on him for me, will you?"

And so Watson had said 'Look after yourself' and 'let me know how you're doing' and 'of course - I'll go round now;' and he had, clutching a home made lasagne Mary had made him bring.

He stopped dead in the centre of the sitting room. How could it look exactly the same when no-one had lived there for two years until a few days ago? How could it feel the same? Nothing else was the same. Not a single thing.

It was unnaturally quiet. Unnaturally tidy and empty. No consulting detective stretched out on the sofa doing an imitation of comatose, as John Watson had been expecting. No consulting detective in the kitchen doing chemical experiments or impatiently waiting for the kettle to boil for tea . Watson carefully placed the food he had brought in the otherwise empty refrigerator, frowning now. Nor was Sherlock in his neat and always austere bedroom, which really did look as if he had not been there for two whole years.

There was no way Sherlock would be up the stairs in John Watson's former bedroom. So only the bathroom left to check. And at that Watson hesitated. Sherlock taking refuge in the bathroom usually meant sickness, illlness, drugs, or some sort of physical damage. And he was out of practise at dealing with all that. Except as a doctor. Just a doctor.

He listened at the door with his hand on the doorknob, reluctant to open it. But he could hear nothing. There was, however, that telltale aroma of moist warmth and bath salts. He took a deep breath, braced himself, called "Sherlock?" and opened the door before he lost his nerve.

The bathroom was fogged and clammy with heat and hot water. The bath was full almost to the brim with pale blue opaque water. Health salts, his nose told him. But Sherlock…?

Sherlock lay completely under the water. Knees of long slim legs bent and showing above the surface, lean body and head below. John Watson could see that his eyes were shut and he was motionless. For one awful moment Watson thought the younger man had drowned himself, or taken an overdose of something toxic and accidentally drowned himself. Drowned himself in reaction to …something? To last night's events?

Feeling suddenly sick and more than a little panicky, John Watson plunged one hand into the water, grabbed a generous handful of Sherlock Holmes's dark luxuriant hair, and hauled upwards.

Sherlock lurched upright, broke the surface of the water like a seal, gasping for air, spluttering, sluicing water from his eyes as they snapped open.

"John!" he exclaimed. "What in hell are you doing? And what are you doing here?"

Sherlock was surprised and angry. He slicked wet hair back from his face, which looked strained and even more gaunt than usual, shadows under his eyes, cheekbones sharp, mouth a taut line.

"Good question!" responded Watson. None of his worst fears had happened, but seeing Sherlock alive did not alleviate his anxiety. Nor what to do about it. "Lestrade wanted to know how you are," he excused himself lamely.

"God. The man thinks he is my mother." Sherlock took a flannel and wiped his face. "And why is it impossible to get any privacy around here? I am fine. And you don't live here any more. Go away."

"Why didn't you ring me? Let me know what had happened?"

"There was nothing you could do and it was nothing to do with you. You have a new life now, John. A life without me. Get used to it."

"That's a bit hard, Sherlock." Watson winced visibly at the dismissal.

"Is it? Evidence is to the contrary. I come back from the dead. You try to throttle me. Twice. Knock me down and head butt me. You have ignored me and sulked for days. I get the message."

John Watson looked away and fumed.

"It's not meant to be like that…." he apologised quietly.

"Yes. It is. So leave."

"No. I'm not yet sure you are OK. And I promised Lestrade…"

"Oh, please!" The irritation was obvious. "Can't you at least let me out of the bath and get dressed in peace and privacy?"

It was a reasonable request, but it set off John Watson's alarm bells. Normally Sherlock was unselfconscious in the presence of his former flat mate. Nakedness between them had been part of the relaxed, casual, living compact of sharing a flat together. It had never bothered Sherlock, so it had never bothered Watson either. So this appeal for privacy was unusual. And he suddenly and painfully remembered Lestrade's words about his friend having come back from the dead damaged and broken.

"What are you trying to hide, Sherlock?" Watson automatically, professionally, looked down at Sherlock's body, but the opaqueness of the water as Sherlock leaned back into the end of the bath was all concealing.

"Absolutely nothing. You are a doctor, John, and my former flatmate. A naked male body, even mine, should have no surprises for you."

"No. But you are always a special case." Watson sat on the downturned toilet lid and crossed his arms. "I am a patient man."

"For goodness' sake!" Sherlock hissed. "The water is getting cold."

"Your move," replied Watson mildly. "Out of interest, how many times have you changed the water?"

Sherlock ignored him and continued to fretfully scrub his face with the flannel.

"From the scum lines round the bath I would say twice at least. Want to tell me why?"

There was a pause before he had a reply. An unexpectedly revealing reply.

"I couldn't get clean. Or warm."

"Out!" Watson snapped in reaction, standing rapidly upright and picking up the black bath sheet from the floor. Sherlock automatically put a hand out to take it, but Watson moved his arm with the towel backwards and away, not forwards and into reach.

"You sound to the doctor in me as if you are suffering from shock if not something worse. And so I need to see you and find out what and why. Check you out."

"No you don't. Nothing to see."

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective sighed with sulky resignation and stood up in the bath. The water surged and settled around his ankles, and Watson looked impassively at the familiar long and surprisingly muscular frame, now paler and even thinner than he remembered: broad shoulders, narrow hips, too lean but still beautifully proportioned. Something was not right, though. He started to understand the disquiet Lestrade had tried to describe, but failed to specify.

Watson stilled the panic that rose in his throat as he looked at the younger man and fought to keep the horrified response from his face. Sherlock, however, managed, as usual, to look ludicrous, bored and irritated all at once.

"That's your definition of nothing, is it?" asked Watson tersely. "Fresh bruises, Sherlock. How?"

"Look worse than they are. Needed the hot bath to bring the bruising out, get it over with. Just boring."

Sherlock Holmes's entire torso was a rainbow coloured mass of red, blue, and black, fresh bruising across his entire chest and abdomen. Not necessarily painful, but still sign of sudden and massive impact.

"How, Sherlock? Did the hospital check you out?"

Sherlock laughed. "Of course not. Why should they? And why should I have told them? It's just bruises. I have no physical reaction, no whiplash or breathing problems, no concussion. I am fine. Lestrade was the main concern."

"What happened?"

"Lestrade and I were thrown into the air by an explosion. I landed against a safety barrier. Which caused this damage. It happens."

"Is that how Lestrade was injured?"

"Yes. He was unlucky." Sherlock frowned, held his hand out again. "May I have the towel now? I'm getting cold."

"Turn round."

"I didn't hurt my back last night."

"Turn round!"

"My back is nothing to do with last night. Just drop it."

"Sherlock, I know you too well, God help me. So you will turn round and show me what you don't want me to see or I swear I will turn you round myself. And if I do you won't like it."

The two men glared at each other for a long moment. But Sherlock Holmes was in the weaker position and starting to shiver. With an exasperated click of his tongue against his teeth he turned slowly and carefully in the water.

John Watson swallowed the bile in his throat along with several panicky and unhelpful remarks, and moved softly forward. Put his hand out.

"I'm going to touch you, Sherlock."

He watched his friend's shoulders drop as if in defeat. And John Watson worried even more. Sherlock never admitted defeat.

"If you must."

Watson gently passed his fingers across the multitude of wheals and welts old and new that crisscrossed Sherlock Holmes's back. Some were old, shining and fading. Some were fresh, still only weeks old. Some were deep and still granulated. Some showed signs of stitching. War wounds. He had seen such handiwork before, but never got used to dealing with the result of deliberate and calculated cruelty None of the scars had been there when they shared the flat, John Watson was sure of it. All were signs of punishment and torture. All part of the past two years? Good God above: what else had happened to him while he was dead?

"Is this part of what happened when you were…away?" He almost said 'dead' and stopped himself at the last moment as his friend gave an almost imperceptible nod. " But I don't understand….some of these marks look so fresh."

"They are fresh. Mycroft brought me home from Serbia two weeks ago. Good timing on his part. I was captured and tortured."

The voice was so matter of fact John Watson almost wished he could see his friend's face, but was also almost pleased he couldn't.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me before?" Watson cried despite himself.

"Play for sympathy? Deal myself the compassion card? I don't think so, do you? Not really me."

"You've thought about this."

"Of course I've bloody thought about it. Like I've thought about why I killed myself to save lives. Put myself into a working hell and exile for two years. And have now returned without so much as an hurrah, but apparently having to apologise to everybody for doing so."

"Sherlock!" Watson was stung, both by the bitterness in Sherlock's voice, and his role in putting it there.

John Watson was also appalled. The words and the thoughts behind them were bad enough. The fact that Sherlock Holmes had lost control of himself enough to say them and then to actually swear was disturbing. That was not what Sherlock did. Despite himself he stepped in sideways and looked closely into his friend's impassive and wilfully empty face, those unique eyes that usually flashed energy and dimension now flat and opaque.

Sherlock Holmes looked blankly back at the man he had once described as his only friend and took the chance to take the bath sheet out of Watson's hand.

"Sherlock, did I make this worse for you? I was shocked, so angry, when you crashed into the restaurant like that. But to grapple with you - run you backwards - shove you onto your back on the floor and wrestle you down….when you were like this…"

"You have no need to tell me what happened, thank you, John. I was there. Entertained a lot of people at the time…."

"Shut up! How much did I hurt you by losing my temper?"

"I don't remember. It doesn't matter."

"But Sher…."

"Stop it, John. Let it go. I'm not blaming you."

Sherlock Holmes flared a look at John Watson but would not meet his eyes and hurriedly looked away again.

John Watson, with the awkward feeling of talking to a stranger, put his hand on Sherlock's side as if in apology, as if to ground both himself and Sherlock, and could feel his own hand shaking. Sherlock however simply moved around his touch, ignoring the contact, stepping out of the bath. Wrapped himself in the sheet.

"I'm going to get dried and dressed. Go home, John."

He left the bathroom quietly and the bathroom door open. Leaving Watson to automatically drain the water, wipe down the bath and open the window, put his friend's disgarded clothes in the laundry basket.

It was good to do something practical, Watson reflected, to close down his mind from the new horrors within. He went into the kitchen, boiled the kettle and prepared mugs for tea. Remained leaning against the worktop in a sort of mental and physical suspension. Felt old and tired and battered. So how must Sherlock feel?

He didn't know how long he waited before Sherlock emerged. He knew it was a long time.

"I told you to go home. So go home."

John Watson turned to see Sherlock Holmes in the doorway, hair still damply tousled, dressed in grey pyjama bottoms and inside out grey silk t shirt, his blue silk second best dressing gown cinched tightly around him.

Sherlock passed him without looking, strode across to his laptop, folded himself down into the grey leather armchair and switched on the computer.

"Ah. The freezing out ploy," observed Watson, openly irritated. "Know that one, Sherlock. It's not going to work."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, John. I have things to do. Go home to Mary."

"Not until I know what's wrong. Because something is. And why Lestrade is worrying about you instead of himself."

"Lestrade worries. That's what he does." A distant shrug.

"Not without cause. And he has known you a lot longer than me. So I take notice of him."

"Well don't." He clicked out the final consonant in a way Watson knew spoke of irritation and temper held in check. Although Watson could not understand what had prompted the bad temper. Unless it was his own presence.

Sherlock concentrated on the laptop, fingers flying over the keys, mentally dismissing his friend.

John Watson sat and waited, watching Sherlock. He looked his normal self -whatever passed as normal for Sherlock Holmes - but John was not convinced. He was too thin and too pale, even for him. And he was carrying a lot of physical damage. So certainly mental damage as well. Exile, capture, torture, rejection by his best friend -only friend - and the traumas of returning home and picking up the threads of his real life again. And the ravages of time itself. All these things would have affected anyone badly, even Sherlock.

Not for the first time John Watson wished desperately he could turn back the clock. Had never believed Sherlock dead. Never grieved. Never found Mary. Never needed her. Never found Sherlock again on the day he was asking Mary to marry him. And had never greeted Sherlock's return with such shock and anger. He had not, he had realised belatedly, behaved well.

As far as John Watson was concerned the bottom line was simple. Nothing about Sherlock was ever the same as anyone else. Why hadn't he realised that all along? And kept faith? Because he should have learnt to recognise and accept that singular truth by now.

"Are you alright?" he asked eventually. He kept repeating himself - louder and with increasing concern - until his friend stopped ignoring him.

"I told you to go. What are you still doing here?" Sherlock glanced up from the computer, frowned, looked back to the screen again, rudely dismissive.

"Waiting for you to stop being so bloody rude."

"You may have to wait a long time."

"Yes. And that's what's bothering me. You are normally only this rude when you are upset; when something is eating you alive."

"Oh, for God's sake!" The lid of the laptop crashed down, Sherlock bounced to his feet and went to look out of the window down onto Baker Street, turning his back on Watson. "What do you want me to say? That I am at the end of my tether? As the saying goes."

"If it's true. Sherlock. Yes. You have to tell me. I'm not a mind reader."

"Tell you what?"

"What happened to you and Lestrade. For starters."

There was apparently something fascinating down in the street. After a long pause and without turning round Sherlock asked:

"If I tell you, will you leave me in peace?"

"Peace? You? You wouldn't know a state of peace if it hit you over the head. And if I leave you what will you do then?" Watson almost shouted, frustrated. Why would Sherlock not talk to him properly? Was he sulking? Punishing him for his behaviour? But he had to push on. "Is this going to be a danger night? Are you going to go straight out and get a fix when I leave you? Because I'm not coping with you going OD again."

"That is no longer your affair."

Sherlock's voice was low, slow, icy, the words punched out with deliberate precision. The eyes flashed something almost like hatred. John Watson sat on his hands to stop himself reacting and crossing the room to punch him.

"I don't trust you any more Sherlock. If my best friend - a person I love with all my heart - cannot tell me what he is doing and destroys me by pretending to kill himself; and yet not understand he has done that; then I don't know how I can ever trust you again. Or why I would want to."

John Watson had been fantasising that speech in his head and heart for days, ever since the smart arse opposite him had pretended to be a wine waiter in a posh restaurant in order to say 'Hi! Not dead! Ta-dah!" as if coming back from the dead was no big deal. A joke, in fact. He had never been sure, since that evening, if he would be able to say anything to Sherlock ever again without breaking down. But he had - the words had actually run away with him -and he was now on the verge of saying a great deal more.

Except that he could not look Sherlock Holmes in the face while he said it. Well, nothing was ever perfect.

"I'm….sorry."

The words were so quietly spoken John Watson thought he had imagined them; had wanted to hear them for so long he thought they were still part of his imagined conversation with the man standing opposite him.

"WHAT?"

He sprang to his feet, shock making his voice louder, angrier, than he had intended it to be. And watched, horrified, as Sherlock Holmes - brave, mad, untouchable Sherlock Holmes - dropped his head as if he had been physically slapped, and shot out a defensive splayed left hand as if to fend Watson off.

"I can't…..say it again. It wasn't meant to be like that. You weren't meant to….grieve. To be destroyed. You were supposed to just …sort of… shrug your shoulders and move on."

Sherlock was not looking at him. He was looking at his feet, and to John Watson it seemed as if the younger man had aged, shrunken, before his eyes. And the bowed head and bent shoulders disturbed him.

"Christ, Sherlock, I know you have trouble relating to other people's feelings, but…how could you ever - _ever_ \- think I could just do that?"

Words failed him, and all he could do now was stand stock still, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying his best - his very best - not to lose any more control, not shout and frighten - _frighten? -_ Sherlock more than it seemed he already had.

"You don't understand, John. Moriarty had to be stopped. We - Mycroft and me -had to let him destroy me because we had no other way to flush him out. No-one could know our plan. The stakes were too high.

"And then when we realised it was endgame - my life or yours, Lestrade's, Mrs Hudson' even Molly's and Mike's too for all we knew - there was no choice. I had to be seen to die."

"You could have told me!"

"No, I couldn't." A small sad smile that might have been full of pity, and was certainly too self aware, flickered across Sherlock's face as he finally looked up.

"You are a good man, John. Too good to be close to an unpleasant man like me. Your honesty and integrity shine off you. That is your attraction and your power. If you had known I was alive, you couldn't have hidden it. That you believed I was dead was the only thing that would convince everyone else.

"Despairing or dead, that was our choice for you. A no-brainer, surely? No alternative, no other way to keep you safe, John. If there had been - don't you think we would have used it? You may hate us now well, me, really - but do you honestly think Mycroft and I are that cruel, that immoral?"

John Watson put his hands to his face and rocked backwards. He couldn't speak. Shock, horror, truth, awareness. Appalled new understanding of the dilemma Sherlock had faced and met head on, then made the only workable decision he could see.

"Well. There's my answer, thank you, John." So it was Sherlock, not John Watson, who spoke finally after what seemed half a lifetime of silence." No answer is more telling than no answer at all." His voice was like a death's knell.

He paced a small circle in front of the window, head down, agitated. And another.

John Watson could see the signs of impending meltdown, and could do nothing about it.

"Sherlock, that's not…..what I…"

"No, John. That's enough. I now know your feelings. Stupid of me to hope for anything else. I told you before. I am not a nice man, so what else should I expect?" He sighed, started talking again in a stronger, harder voice now.

" I will tell you what happened today then you can tell Lestrade you did what he asked of you. And when I have told you, you will leave here, return to Mary, and resume your new life without me."

"That's not what this is about, what I'm trying to say…."

"Oh, but it is, John. It really is."

Sherlock stopped, turned away from Watson and looked out of the window again, his hands deep in his dressing gown pockets. He drew a breath.

"Lestrade was in pursuit of a drugs ring. I had information about a big drop, key players to be on site. So I told him and asked to go along for the bust.

"So there we are in this empty warehouse in Silvertown, hunkered down in the dark waiting for the main men to show up. Our troops were in place to pounce - in the yard, on the ground floor. Lestrade wanted to be upstairs in the warehouse so he could get a command overview, so I stayed with him.

"We didn't know there was a bomb primed to be a damaging diversion if the gang were cornered. When things kicked off - and someone detonated it - we were just unfortunate the bomb was in the air conditioning unit at the base of our stairwell, and Lestrade and I were leaning over the top of the stairs to see what was happening."

He sighed, looked round briefly to make sure Watson was paying attention.

"The force of the explosion came up the stairs at us like a shock wave. Lestrade was closer than me to it. We were blown off our feet, out onto the gallery walkway. We were two storeys up."

"You fell?"

"Hmmn…. I crashed into the safety rail, which winded me. Sort of grabbed Lestrade by sheer instinct as he flew past me, straight over the top. Breaking his momentum as he went over the rail nearly knocked me out with the impact - the rail slamming against my chest was like being kicked by a horse. Hence the bruising.

"So there we are; me crushed against the safety barrier, being dragged over, Lestrade already over the side, dangling in mid air and only my hand between him and the drop."

He told the tale with a calm face and a quiet voice, but John Watson was not fooled.

"I managed to get my other hand around his wrist, but Lestrade was barely conscious and a dead weight. He couldn't help me help him, and there was no-one else. My hands got slippery - sweat. And tired. I felt him slipping out of my grip and so did he.

"I screamed for help, but I knew it would come too late. So I grabbed hold of Lestrade's coat sleeve instead. Cheapskate."

"What? How?" Watson demanded, puzzled.

"He needs a decent coat, like my Belstaff. The Belstaff would save a life, But his waterproof - pathetic. The sleeve gave way. Like some cheap movie. I couldn't hold on any longer, nothing to hold on to. Lestrade fell."

Sherlock released a long shuddering breath as he remembered, face contorting. Watson watched him, horrified.

"And that's your story."

"What happened next?"

"I ran down to him - had to use the stairs opposite as the ones we had been standing on were destroyed. But that extra time let me ring for an ambulance as I ran. I was sure he would be dead by the time I reached him."

"But he wasn't, was he?"

"Obviously not. I'm not sure how that didn't happen." Sherlock frowned, dwelling on the puzzle of that rather than the relief of it. "He was still conscious when I reached him, but had hit the ground with a real crack. He fell about twenty feet. Lucky to survive..

"I went with him to hospital. When his sister turned up I left. So here we are."

He dragged his hands painfully through his hair in a familiar gesture, shook his head, moved away from the window. Watson shot out a hand to stop him as he passed.

"But Sherlock. That was nightmare. You could have both died. Lestrade almost did. A terrible experience for you both."

"Could have been worse. Better if it hadn't happened at all," was the crisp reply.

Watson held and clung onto an edge of dressing gown as Sherlock moved to pass him and leave the room. Checked in mid stride, the consulting detective tried to push Watson's hand away, without looking at him, without success.

"You must have relived the fall. Your fall. Talk about PTSD and flashback. You must have seen Lestrade's fall as if it was your own. I watched you fall, Sherlock. I know what that feels like, and just watching such a fall is bad enough.

"But you tried to save Lestrade. He slipped from you in slow motion. You watched that and you heard him crunch onto the ground - just as you should have fallen two years ago - and you saw and felt what should have happened to you. What in God's name does that feel like?"

John Watson, still hanging onto the dressing gown, stood up and faced Sherlock Holmes. Whose impassivity was frightening and who refused to meet Watson's eyes.

"You must have felt you had killed Lestrade; because you put him into that place. And then failed to save him. My God, Sherlock. That fucks with your head."

"Nothing so emotive, John. Stop burdening me with emotion." But his face was crumbling; as if the very muscles were dissolving John Watson thought, watching this happen, aghast.

Sherlock Holmes finally tugged his dressing gown from John Watson's hand and turned away, making some low indefinable sound in his throat.

Instead of walking away he turned away from his friend as if in slow motion, as if beyond the point of exhaustion. Facing the wall now, he raised his arms and put his hands onto it at shoulder height, leaned into the wall and pushed, head down.

Self control technique, John Watson registered automatically. Autism meltdown avoidance procedure. Oh God!

"Don't do this, Sherlock. Don't keep trying to fool me you don't care and don't feel. I know you better than that."

"Shut up."

"No Sherlock. This isn't right. You aren't right."

"You want a medal for observation?" The voice was low, becoming derailed and distant. John Watson did not even recognise the tone of voice.

He walked across, reached out a hand. But then hesitated to touch.

Tell me what I can do to help?"

"Help." The echo was quiet, scathing, not even a question. "You wouldn't know where to begin. Just leave - it. Me. P-please go away." the words stuttered, wobbled.

"Sherlock?"

"If you ask once more if I am OK I swear I will kill you," this came out edgy, slightly muffled.

"Oh, fuck you then, Sherlock. OK, don't let anyone in. I've had enough, now. Because, know what? I've really missed all this angst the past two years."

"I'm sure you have. Sorry to bother you with it now. But I didn't ask you here." Sherlock's voice strove for arch banter, but came out bitterly dismissive, It caught a nerve.

Watson hitched a savage breath, took three angry strides towards the door. Angry with Sherlock. Angry with Lestrade. But mostly angry with himself for having responded so badly to Sherlock's reappearance. Then he hesitated, the anger gone as quickly as it had risen.

Realised anger was no solution, especially when Sherlock was trying to stir it in him. Realised that he needed to make things right, if there was ever going to be a chance of that, now. Realised that what he really wanted - needed - was for Sherlock to call him back.

But his friend didn't. And Watson knew he never would, not now. Or even that he could. And that the more anguished Sherlock became, the less able he always was to appeal for help or support.

Watson looked back at Sherlock, who was now very deliberately ignoring him, arched and frozen into position; leaning against the wall, head down, face concealed, hands fisted white, his whole body under immense tension.

Watson took two slow steps further away, and made a decision. A decision that was really no decision at all. He softly opened the door, said curtly: "I'm done here." and slammed the door shut.

But he did not go through. He froze where he stood, held his breath and waited, although not sure what for. After one long moment he knew.

Sherlock Holmes was on his own now. He slowly raised his head as if it was too heavy for his shoulders to carry, and Watson could see his eyes rolled back, his expression a blank mask, yet with deep tension in the long corded line of his throat.

A vibration then seemed to ripple through his whole body. A low, single sob escaped from him. Then another - louder, more ragged. John Watson felt sick.

For only when he thought he was alone did Sherlock Holmes release his rigid self control. His arms braced against the wall buckled inwards, and his knees gave way as he slid down onto the floor. Watson watched in horror as Sherlock Holmes crawled deep into the corner behind the sofa and curled up there, arms tight over and around his head.

While the sobs became longer, more anguished, despite the hands clamped over his mouth in an attempt to still keep them all inside.

He started to rock, shaking now, sobs of pain alternating with angry groans of distress. John Watson was torn with indecision: to slip away and in all decency allow Sherlock the privacy he craved? Or risk all to step closer and try to help?.

Instinct and pity made him move forward and put a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder.

At the unexpected touch Sherlock cried out, eyes blowing open but not seeing, scrabbling deeper into his corner.

"Sherlock, no! No, stop! It's me, it's John. It's OK. You are safe. In Baker Street. No-one is going to hurt you. Trust me, Sherlock. It's over."

John Watson couldn't stop his words tumbling over themselves. Couldn't tear his eyes from his friend's face.

He had not seen tears on the face of Sherlock Holmes since looking into his bloodied and apparently dead face on the pavement outside Bart's. In the past he had seen Sherlock manufacture tears to solve a case, encourage a witness, cheat a reaction, and had often marvelled at the younger man's acting ability. But he had never seen real tears like this on him before. And he realised he did not want to see Sherlock's tears now - or ever again.

John Watson crouched down, leant forward, attempted to put his arms awkwardly around Sherlock's shoulders. The only thing he could think to do. But Sherlock flailed the comforting hands angrily away as soon as he realised their purpose.

"Don't touch me! You left. Why haven't you left?"

"Because you need me," Watson said quietly.

"I need nobody." Sherlock breathed, harsh words harsher for being so quiet. "This is just dealing with too much…..everything. Not your problem. Not now." He dragged up a deep breath " For Christ's sake go away. Stop shaming me."

"Shame? What are you ashamed of, Sherlock?"

"Told you before. I do not have emotion. Emotion is wrong. Shameful. It damages me, damages those around me Alone protects me. And you. From me." He spoke in staccato gasps between tears and gulps of air.

"I don't need to be protected any more, Sherlock. You did that - you saved my life. All done, now. Did I ever say 'thank you' for that?" John Watson had so much to say to his friend….but now was hardly the time or the place. And he didn't have the first idea as to what to say next. "And the last thing I will ever need is to be protected from you, you idiot."

"But you look as if it is you that needs protecting now, Sherlock, So let me do that," John Watson observed softly, feeling hollow, useless, yet needing, he knew, to break his friend's dangerous and destructive mood. Whilst watching the tears falling unheeded down Sherlock's face with dreadful fascination. "Your turn now."

"It's never my turn," his ravaged face was belied by his harsh voice. "So don't look at me. How can you bear to look at me?"

He dragged a deep breath, fingered tears angrily from his eyes, wiped his face on his tee shirt, trying to regain control and losing.

"Because I care for you. Because I owe you," Watson said.

Words from the heart that made his friend snarl back the single word: "Care," with disdain and move away from him.

"What in God's name makes you like this, Sherlock?" Watson asked, his voice gentler than he would ever have thought possible. "Why are you frightened of behaving like a normal human being?"

"Weak. Dangerous. Obvious." Sherlock looked at John Watson as if looking at a stranger. "Go away, John."

"I can't leave you like this. I've never seen you like this…."

"Lucky you. See what you've missed.."

Somehow a snarl that was also a sardonic smile twisted one side of his face. And as they looked at each other, heads bowed and with too much unspoken between them, they both heard a key turn in the lock of the flat's entrance door.

"Oh. Come one, come all," Sherlock sneered, raising his head and breaking eye contact. "Let's sell tickets to watch Sherlock make a fool of himself. What are you doing here, Lestrade?

"I've come to say thank you to the man who saved my life."

Lestrade, grey, unshaven, one arm strapped up close to his chest, crossed the room at surprising speed, pushed John Watson out of the way, dropped to his haunches in front of Sherlock Holmes and took the consulting detective's chin in a hard grip, hauling the head up to meet his eyes.

"What have you done? What have you taken?"

"Nothing, Lestrade. I'm clean. " The voice is flat now, almost bored.

"You mean you haven't touched your stash yet?"

"I haven't got a stash. Nor three syringes. You think the worst of me for something so unimportant, when you should be screaming at me for not saving you. Don't understand you…."

Sherlock's voice trails away, exhausted, dismissive.

Three syringes? Watson was puzzled. The two were talking their own shorthand now and leaving him behind. Three syringes usually meant piggy backing drugs. Which meant committing suicide. Sherlock? Could - would - Sherlock do that? A cold hand grasped his heart.

"He's not into killing himself, he's just…at the end of his tether," Watson excused.

Lestrade turned to him and his smoothly handsome face was more savage than John Watson had ever seen it

"You don't know him as well as I do. He hates himself so much he tries to be superman. When he fails….."Lestrade shook his head, clenched Sherlock's jaw so tightly Sherlock flinched and tried to squirm away. But Lestrade held him far too fiercely.. "….when he _thinks_ he's failed - he goes into meltdown. I've seen him do it before and saved him from himself before now. You have no idea, John." He turned to Watson.

"Look at him. Look at this - broken shell." Lestrade shook Sherlock's head angrily in his hand, as Sherlock tries to shrink away from his friends, but transfixed by Lestrade's fierce grip.

" This man should not be in meltdown, John. He should be dead. Three years under the most tremendous pressure. Fighting Moriarty, letting him destroy his reputation and burn his self respect. Pretending to die and cutting himself off from all that is dear to him. Working undercover and alone doing the most dangerous things - and succeeding - for two whole years. Could you do that, John? Could I?" Lestrade is both angry and amazed, his voice full of a rare pity and wonder.

" He returns after trauma and torture and damn me, comes back to more torment when his friends turn their backs on him and his self sacrifice. And then yesterday he saves me again. That's twice now, this time round." He is shouting now, realises it, judders to a stop and regain self control.

The usual urbane, relaxed, placid detective inspector is no more, and Watson is silenced in amazement. Would anyone on his team recognise this angry and impassioned man?

"Anyone else would be dead by now. But not Sherlock. Sherlock does not die. Refuses to lose. So what does he do? Sit on his laurels, go on holiday to recuperate? Accepts the knighthood Mycroft keeps threatening him with? No, not this guy. He blames himself for everything. And for what? For being human." He peers at Sherlock, and John Watson sees tears of humiliation ghosting down Sherlock's cheeks. Lestrade sees them too, and is angry.

"There are two people in this room with him, the two people closest to him, and whose lives he has saved, and he is desperately upset because they - we - are watching him demean himself by finally buckling under a weight no-one else would even think of carrying. Yeah, demeaning himself, John. Because that's his judgement of himself here, no-one else's. And we are two of the people who would be dead if it wasn't for him.

"So you tell me this, John. How do we get that through the thick head of this bloody genius? This brave, brilliant man who just doesn't get it? Doesn't get how special he is? How much we value him? How we don't care if he is here in bits like this, behaving like a normal human being for once? Breaking and bending, just for once? Like the rest of us do. And that it actually makes us feel better for him because of it?"

John Watson was conscious he had bitten the inside of his cheek until it bled. How was it he had needed Greg Lestrade to turn on him like this before he realised the full import of what had happened? How? Had love for Mary really made him so blind to his love for Sherlock?

"Stop this, Greg. You exaggerate." Sherlock covers his eyes with his hands, his voice defeated.

"He called you Greg. He can't be so bad; he remembered your name," Watson offered, clutching at straws.

"Of course he remembered my name. He has never forgotten it. It is a game we play, John," Lestrade could barely suppress his emotion and anger as he spoke.

"There is no precedent to the working relationship between Sherlock and me," he explained more quietly. "We have always had to busk it as we go along. Right from the day a mad but brilliant sixteen year old put his own woes aside to solve my first murder investigation for me."

"But I don't understand. When I first met you, you said you had known him for five years…" Watson protested, baffled.

"Yeah. I say that to everyone. It's our cover story. Five years seems a respectable amount of time and experience to instil confidence, but not quite long enough to know everything about him. Yet I do know everything about him.

"So he calls me Lestrade to maintain professional distance for the benefit of the rest of the world, and he pretends to forget my Christian name to pretend he doesn't care. That neither of us care."

Lestrade pushes Sherlock's hands away from his eyes, grasps his chin to haul his head back up again so their eyes meet. Kind blue eyes scoping grey ones glittering with tears, grey eyes trying desperately to look away. As if ashamed. As if demeaned, as Lestrade has said. Watson's heart bleeds.

"Which is a load of bollocks, John, and you know it, Because this man has saved my life and my career more times than I can tell you or even remember. Just like I have saved his. So now….." he smiles into Sherlock's eyes in a moment of pure unguarded communication. "Now I just want to smack his head into a wall until he sees sense."

Sherlock almost smiles and sniffs back his sobs. Reaches out and grasps Lestrade's wrist.

"I might just let you," he manages, "I deserve it." He drags a deep breath and Lestrade and Watson stop breathing and wait. "Where's Carol?"

"Downstairs. In her car. Reading a book. She's fine. She knows why I'm here."

"Go back to her. Go to her home and get better."

"You're a fine one to talk!"

"Hmnn." Sherlock nods. Calm now.

"I needed to talk to you, Sherlock. I knew you would be like this. That's why I called John. To come and make sure you were OK until I could get to you. So you didn't do anything stupid.."

"Don't do that again," urged Sherlock quietly. "I don't do stupid. Anyway, I told you. John's not in the picture any more."

"Oi! I am here, you know." Watson protested

"No. You're really not. You are in a different life.."

Sherlock's expression as he shot a look at him was one Watson recognised; piercing, calculated and implacable.

Lestrade knuckled Sherlock's chin, and not gently, dragging his concentration away from Watson, and back to himself. "Are you listening to me, Sherlock? I need to tell you what you need to know'

"Because I am not letting you blame yourself for what happened to me yesterday. Because I know you do"

"So continue."

"Right. Listen and don't interrupt. Can you do that for once?"

"Yes." Shortly.

"OK. You feel guilty you brought the drugs drop to my attention. Don't be. This one was vital; the drugs from these people were being cut tainted - killing even more victims than normal.

"I would have asked you to be with me even if you hadn't suggested it. This was your case, and you needed to be with me. You could not have foreseen that bomb blast, nor the way we were thrown about by it.

"If you had not been there, I would have been killed. No question. Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. Dropped his head.

"Please don't say…anything more. Prolong this agony."

"It's not agony. It shouldn't be agony. This is truth you need to hear. So, as you would say yourself - deal with it, mate."

Lestrade smiled. Sherlock shuddered a breath and was silent.

"Here's the bottom line, Sherlock. If you had not caught me as I went over the drop, I would have plunged into the concrete at about 100mph. I would have been dead. You took that impact for me. You broke my fall even before I fell. You held me until I got my brain back, knew what was happening. You saved my life then.

"Not you - not anyone - could have kept hold of me over that drop. You are not superman. In the real world - our world - no-one is. So deal with that. By the time I slipped out of your hands I knew what was coming and knew what to do to minimise the damage. Did you know that?"

John Watson saw Sherlock shake his head again.

"You won't remember this, why should you? But years ago we were talking about when you used to ride competitively. You were explaining about how to fall. About always twisting to land on your shoulder, because that is the biggest and hardest bone in your body, and falling and landing on your shoulder protected all your other bones and organs and would probably save your life.

"And you know what? As I fell - and it seemed to take a lifetime before I landed - I remembered what you said and tried my best to land on my shoulder, not my feet or my head. And I remember thinking I hoped you would be proud of me for remembering. Because here I am, Sherlock. Thanks to you. You saved my life twice yesterday.

"Do you get it now, Sunshine? I love you and owe you my life. So deal with that. And get over" - he waved a hand - "all this. " He smiled, relaxed his shoulders. "Go back to being your own weird version of Superman for us."

Sherlock Holmes put both hands up to his mouth to stop any sound coming out. And watched Watson and Lestrade watching him labour to drag his breathing under control.

They had no idea what was going through his mind, for he was, as usual, impossible to read. Even with tears blurring his features, bruises covering his too pale body, and his eyes smudged with black shadows of stress and exhaustion.

After a moment -during which he looked at them as if they were total strangers - he seemed to come to some conclusion, sucked in a huge breath, shook all over like a dog, then pushed himself backwards and upwards against the wall to stand erect.

Nodded to himself and raised his head in the old arrogant way, changed his mood faster than breathing..

"Go home. Both of you. Crisis over. Things to do."

Watson and Lestrade exchanged looks and also got to their feet. Feeling awkward and drained.

"Are you sure?" Watson asked. "Just like that? Because I feel …flayed alive."

"Regrettable but understandable."

"Are you going to be OK?" Lestrade asked.

"Thanks to you, yes." Sherlock Holmes slanted a look, a brief flicker of a smile. "I am just… tired."

"You did sit awake by my bedside all last night," Lestrade observed.

"Quite so." Sherlock agreed, "I will be fine Greg. Am fine. Don't worry about me any more. I will sleep now."

"Promise? No drugs? No danger night?" he registered the curt nod he received in reply as good as an oath to anyone who knew.

He slapped Sherlock on the shoulder and was back to his usual smiling imperturbable self. "I'll ring tomorrow to make sure you are OK. You bloody idiot."

He went to the door, waiting for John Watson to join him.

"I'm in two minds about leaving you. I feel I've let you down," John Watson put out his hand to touch Sherlock's arm in a gesture of fellow feeling, but instead Sherlock intercepted that gesture, twisted away and instead put his hand into Watson's outstretched one, shaking hands briefly and formally.

"Yes," he said. And so neutrally John Watson had no idea exactly what Sherlock was saying 'yes' to.

And Watson was now brought to the edge of tears himself by his friend's new formality towards him, and needed to leave before he made a fool of himself; begged Sherlock to forgive him, fumbled to explain his two years of hell without him, to justify his need and his loneliness in falling in love with Mary. Betraying their friendship at a time he had thought Sherlock was dead and the most important person and inspiration in his life no longer existed.

"There's food in the fridge," he said inconsequentially.

"Thank Mary for me. Thank you for coming."

The words were polite, distant. No promises, no commitment, such as he had made to Lestrade. All I deserve, John Watson thought. And lucky to have even that. But perhaps that was something to build on? Some fingertip hold on retaining their friendship, their companionship, their fellow feeling and team spirit? To find again what had been and still was so very important to him?

"I will come and see you tomorrow. When you have slept and eaten, and back to normal. We need to talk." It was both promise and plea.

"Whatever," Sherlock replied unhelpfully, looking over his head, not meeting his eye.

He's not letting me off the hook, not helping me, Watson thought. Despite today and trying to make it better, I have hurt him and betrayed him. And he is still trying to make me step away from him. For my sake, though, not for his. I know this now, and whatever am I going to do about it?

"Tomorrow," Watson repeated.

Sherlock nodded, opened the door.

"Are you really OK?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes," Sherlock replied confidently. He smiled, slowly and awkwardly, as if the very idea of smiling was exhausting, overwhelming - and he would not meet their eyes. "I have goldfish, you see. Good goldfish," he explained. But even as he spoke he knew they would not understand his words. It was for his brother alone to do that.

"What?" Watson and Lestrade said together, looking at each other blankly, looking puzzled.

"No matter. Just a factor my brother does not understand. No matter," said Sherlock, and laughed at the very idea. "Goodnight, And thank you both."

He shut the door as his friends, encouraged now by his laughter, went slowly down the seventeen stairs without speaking to each other, and opened the street door. Lestrade's sister was waiting in her car outside.

Not knowing what to say to each other even now, they said nothing more except goodbye and went their separate ways.

Sherlock Holmes watched them leave from his window. Smiled to himself, sighed, and finally took himself to bed. The silence in the flat was palpable now, and suddenly that solitude was very soothing. He knew he would sleep properly tonight now. Just for once. Now he was finally home again.

END

 **Author's Notes:** Details in this story are compliant to the wonderful sevenpercent's Sherlock backstory. Thank you for your inspiration, seven percent!

And due to my own brush with an idiot male driver, an airbag and a written off car, I can confirm that it is perfectly possible to cover your torso with deep bruises without really feeling a thing, at the time or afterwards!


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